A Taste to Kill
by crims0npools
Summary: Wicked eyes hide his evil lies. Face of an angel, soul of a poet. He's got an unnerving skill and a knack to kill.
1. Chapter 1

So _this,_ this little thing is my first ever fanfiction! Well, the first one to be tossed into the real world and see the light of day. Okay, bit dramatic. But hey! I'm _super_ nervous and just hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it! :)

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><p>Tate Langdon was <em>buzzing<em>. Shaking to the point he had to force his legs to stay on the ground, his charcoal eyes rounded and wide, blacker than ever with a hint of something else. sitting on his bed beside him lay an a small empty bag, the contents already pumping its way through his veins, making his vision blurred and his brain hazy. The numbers on the clock melted away, hour by hour he sat numb, and shaking violently as he fingered his most prized possession, his baby. Smooth and black, all this power in a weak boys hands. The power to _Hurt_, _destroy_, kill. His gun lay clasped in his long milky fingers glinting as the first bit of morning sun crept through his dank windows. Fuelled on the devils dandruff his mind was racing, voices bouncing around his head, some screaming, some pleading. As jumbled plans ran through his mind, stinging tears threatened to spill, falling over his eyelashes and staining his sunken cheeks. His tears tasted bitter. Just like the boy himself. Tate had an ever changing personality, it changed as quick as flicking a switch, kind and gentle one minute, scared and helpless another, then raging and dangerous the next. Tate Langdon was the definition of unpredictable. He had the ability to disengage from his emotions, every emotion apart from hate. There was too much hate in him to ignore. it _plagued_ his body, eating away at him. He was mentally unstable and no one knew it better than himself. He wanted to kill. It was a hunger, _a need_. Raging inside he pulled out another two guns from under his bed, studying them as carefully as his blurred vision would let him.

"Soon" the voices repeated._ Over and over_ they pounded around his head, causing him to shake even more, attempting to rid his brain of harmful thoughts. The blonde haired boy staggered from his bed to reach for his jacket, zipping the black hoodie all the way up he gathered his coat, bought at a thrift store three days earlier, it was new looking and grand. army embellishments and buttons that glistened and hurt his tired eyes. It was the coat you'd imagine someone of importance wearing, this coat meant power, strength. Everything Tate was not. This cloak of courage, power and strength, hung from his tired body making him feel alive. Giving him a sense of nerve, he was invincible.

Who knows, maybe it was the coat. Or maybe it was him.

/meanwhile\\

"He's doing well, no bad behaviour as yet" drawled a strong southern accent emasculating from the bright kitchen. "The drugs? Oh yes.. I'm- I don't- he's not a bad boy."

Standing at the kitchen sink, Constance stood slouched, vivid blonde hair tousled and the home phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.

"Nonsense!" she barked down the phone,

"My son, is perfectly fine! He's just- he's just depressed.."

She lowered her tone, as she single handidly lit up a cigarette bringing it to her red painted lips.

"He spends all day up in his room.. no.. no there's no way of talking to him.. I don't-.. well, yes... he has mentioned voices.."

Grey smoke came billowing out of her mouth as she spoke, only to be inhaled once more as she sucked in breath.

"He's a sad, lonely boy that's all... yes... no...He needs friends..Hell, he just needs a hobby" she sighed sitting down at the rickety kitchen table. Without another breath she slammed down the phone on the table and took off upstairs.

"Tate? Tate honey?" she called, reaching the top step, her bloodshot eyes strained to see down the hall, his door was closed, of course it would be.

"Tate, Tate please talk to me? It's been three days"

No movement. Taking a drag out of her cigarette, her anger started to rise.

"if you don't come out right this minute!"

Still no movement, except for constances orders echoing around the house, making the old wooden floors creak.

Sitting bolt up right at his desk Tate clenched his jaw. that_ bitch_. he didn't answer to anyone, especially not her, a cocksucking whore. Fingering his gun once again, he rose to look in the mirror. Reaching out a bony hand, he wiped away the dust giving himself a good view of his own face. "Ha" he spat staring blankly at his reflection. He didn't see his reflection as himself, his mirror showed a weak boy, a scared little boy. a pale face, graced with beauty and killer cheekbones, plump lips that were chapped and sore, and two dimples that made the odd appearance whenever he smiled, which wasn't often. Curls, blonde, just like his mother. Yet his hair was wild and unruly, no matter how much he tried, the curls _always_ remained, falling into his face. his eyes were the only thing about himself he liked. they were dark and deep. Such a deep brown they could be black. They were emotionless and never gave anything away, his eyes were always empty. Just like his soul.

Lifting his sleeve he examined the fresh cuts, they stung, yet felt numb. His drug fuelled mind made the blood look even more appealing; it flowed in such beautiful patterns, like a river of pain. Cutting was a comfort, something he'd promised was a "one time thing", yet every week, without fail, out came a small black case hidden under his mattress, containing blades of different sizes, razors, knives, anything with the power to cut his tough skin. To slice with enough force to provoke a feeling. A feeling of control. Cutting meant control, he controlled this pain, not his mother, not the voices,_ him_. And it made a change to feel something, coke and meth had made him numb, numb to hardly any emotion except hate and despair. so pain made a nice little appearance now and then, making him feel a _little_ more human.

"Tate Langdon!" screeched an unwelcome voice, crushing his thoughts.

"YOU GET TO SCHOOL RIGHT NOW! It's been three weeks! If I get one more phone call from you-"

Clenching his fists at the sound of her voice, he quickly gathered his guns, pushed them under the bed and grabbed his bag. Tate shuffled to the door and yanked it open, ignoring the pain in his eyes as direct sunlight hit them. Standing before him was his mum, hair scraped back tight, almost as tight as her heavily botoxed face sneering up at him, clad in a long pink flowery night gown holding a cigarette.

"Goodbye mother" he quipped as he made his way downstairs. Brushing past her without another word.

School would be fun.

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><p>I Really hope you liked it! If you did, or even if you didn't, a review would be lovely! :)<p>

An update a day? I will try my best!


	2. Chapter 2

So here's chapter 2! And i'm writing chapter three as we speak! enjoy :)

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><p>Westfield High was the local comprehensive, full of every walk of life. The jocks, the cheerleaders, the math geeks. You name it, they were here. Everyone fitted in somewhere, even the misfits had their group.<p>

Tate on the other hand, wasn't part of _any_ clique. Tate was an outsider, a lone soldier. School was just a place he had to be, he had no time for friends, not even aqqaintences, these people where below him. He only communicated with those he needed to, like Beanie. Beanie was an alright kid, two years younger and completely of fhis head most of the time. Tate only spoke to him every now and then, usually crammed in a toilet cubicle, speaking in hushed tones as they exchanged money and little bags of magic pills and fairy dust. Beanie was his go to guy, and he had the best shit in town.

Head down, tate strode Down the corridor, hushed voices whispered around him, cruel words bounced between lockers as he went. He kept his dark eyes down, fiddling with his ring in annoyance, tracing the silver snake that coiled around his bony thumb. Every couple of steps, a younger student would lose their path and come bounding into his puffed out chest, stepping back to say sorry, but falling short of breath when they reached his eyes. Hardly anyone messed with Tate. not because he was intimidating or "hard", but because no one knew him, he was the boy everyone feared, few had witnessed the odd psychotic moment, yet many had heard. It was highschool, people talked. Words and names flew around every day "psycho, depressed, emo, freak, maniac" yet no one really knew, because no one really knew Tate. he'd get the odd teacher trying to talk, all that "damaged boy" bullshit. they'd sit him down in a room to talk about feelings. whilst he'd oblige, he'd be doodling bloody scenes involving that particular teacher in his notebook between sentences.

Tate liked one place in school, the library. It was quite and solemn. No one judged you between those four walls, and well, if they did, they did it silently. Tracing the dusty shelves, books in hand, Tate nodded his head to the beats pulsating through his walkman earphones, humming along every now and then when he knew he was alone. Nothing like a bit of Nirvana to calm his mood.

"you look how I feel" interrupted a drousy voice.

giving a glare, Tate reached for his earphones and yanked them out, ready to stalk away in a temper. but then he caught sight of the voices owner. Emily White. Tall, brunette and clad in a tight fitting cheerleaders uniform. Tate wasn't one to look, but he couldn't help but feel a little odd, staring at her curves encased in the thin, tight fabric of her dress. he was a teenage boy after all and he still found things attractive. But her looks could never outweigh her horrible personality.

"what do you want?" he snarled kicking the bookshelf beside him.

"ooh someone's touchy!" she cooed leaning farther into him.

"I hear this little angel" she said, poking a finger into his chest,

"is a right little coke head, am I right?"

"none of your god damn business" Tate barked, preparing to shove her into the nearest object.

"oh come on! look at you, you're a mess! does mummy not care enough to send you for help, poor little Langdon's all screwed up in the head,and no one cares" she teased, a malicious smirk creeping across her face.

"leave me alone" Tate quipped, shoving past and dissapering into the bookshelves.

"oh Tate, your sisters looking for you, you know, the freaky one?"

Tate ignored her voice, breathing in slowly to calm the anger he could feel building.

"whats wrong with her again?"

just as Tate, turned to meet her face again, another figure joined their conversation.

"woah, hey man calm down."

it was johnny smith, football captain.

"all she wants is a bit of gear"

"I don't have gear" Tate sighed.

as quick as a switch, the voices started. Emily and Johnnys whiny tones drifting into black, as snarling whispers crept into tate's mind, they were so loud, so deafening. they filled the room, blocking out everything else, his vision blurred and he staggered a bit.

"strangle her!" they cried "hold her pretty little neck till her face goes blue! crush her bones, slit her throat!"

"No!" Tate cried, pounding his head with his fists as Emily and johnny looked on, laughing at the state he was in.

"aw Emily look, he's having a nightmare, is ickle baby Langdon ok?"

"they're mocking you Tate. murder them, right here, right now. bash their heads in, cover them in their own blood"

students where gathering to watch now, slowly edging from

their seats in the library and circling Tate.

"Get out!" cried Tate, still smacking his head with his fists.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

Emily backed away, laughing a little less as Tate started sobbing,

"we should- let's leave him johnny, i told you he goes apeshit easily!"

as the two jocks wandered off, the crowd began to subside. tears cascading down his face, he buried his head in his hands. sliding down the bookcase until he was in a sitting position on the floor. clawing his straggley blonde curls into his face he carried on whimpering. why won't the voices stop? why did they make him want to do such horrendous things?

The school bell rang and rang and rang. still Tate sat hunched in the corner glaring at students and mouthing insults at the "popular crowd". Did Tate mention he got bullied? no of course not, too proud and stubborn to admit a thing like that. but every day, every damn day, there'd be comments slung his way, vile ones about his sister, his mother, himself. And he'd block them out most of the tome, but occasionally the voices won, they'd barge in and take over. even though Tate was bullied, people still feared him, well, people with common sense did. wasnt it obvious what a psycho kid could do? didn't people watch the news? everyone else stayed away, but not the jocks. They were too dumb to know what he was capable of. He wouldn't stand up to them, not yet, he'd let the sadness consume him, take him over for now, the more he cared about what they said and how much he let it hurt him, the better, because in some sick way, he knew that would make them worse, they'd keep going and going, and that gave him the perfect excuse. when the day finally came, he'd have the excuse to hurt them more than anyone else, and that thought made his heart flutter and his stomache contort in excitement. What a strange boy he was.

"Tate? Tate sweetheart?" it was miss bueler, school councillor, offering a dainty hand. shuffling in his faded blue jeans, Tate uncrossed a sweater clad arm and reached for her hand. Her grip was soft, friendly, unusual.

Her face was framed with short auburn hair, the kind of colour that looked like dried blood if you scrunched up your eyes. Her eyes were blue, piercing and bright, accompanied by long black lashes that fluttered as he spoke. Tate's eyes drifted to her neck, his eyes scanning down her throat, her scrawny throat, bony and weak. all he would have to do is extend a hand, apply a little pressure and snap!

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><p>Next chapter might even be up today if revision doesn't keep me too busy. Still not sure whether to introduce violet into the story, what do you think?<p>

Oh and if i accidently call say, a sweater, a jumper, or a tub a bath.. just try and ignore it. Being British has its down sides..


	3. Chapter 3

So i'm back! Sorry i didn't update yesterday, revision's a bummer..

Anyway, here's chapter three. It's a _little _shorter than the first two, but not to worry, im writing the next chapter as we speak!

Oh, and 12 people have added this to their story alert, so thankyou! :)

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><p>The school bell <em>rang<em> and _rang_ and _rang_, echoing through the library as students flitted out one by one, casting sorrowful looks at the run-down boy as they passed. Tate sat hunched in the corner, glaring at students and mouthing insults at the "popular crowd". Tate was a toured soul, constantly changing his personality to fit his mood, some days he'd just snap and take no shit from anyone, other days, he's sit quietly and cower as insults tore through him like a knife. Every day, every damn day, there'd be comments slung his way, vile ones about his sister, his mother, himself. And he'd block them out most of the time, but occasionally the voices won, they'd barge in and take over. Even though Tate was relentlessly bullied, people still feared him, well, people with common sense did. Wasn't it obvious what a psycho kid could do? Didn't people watch the news? Everyone else stayed away, but not the jocks. They were too dumb to know what he was capable of. He wouldn't stand up to them, not yet, he'd let the sadness consume him, take him over for now, the more he cared about what they said and how much he let it hurt him, the better, because in some _sick_ way, he knew that would make them worse, they'd keep _going and going_, and that gave him the perfect excuse. When the day finally came, he'd have the excuse to hurt them more than anyone else, and that thought made his heart flutter and his stomach contort in excitement. **What a strange boy he was.**

"Tate? Tate sweetheart?" it was miss Bueler, school councillor, offering a dainty hand as she hovered over the lurking boy, a worried look painted across her face. Shuffling in his faded blue jeans, Tate uncrossed a sweater clad arm and reached for her hand. Her grip was soft, friendly, unusual. Her milky white face was framed with short auburn hair;_ the colour looked like dried blood if you scrunched up your eyes._ Her eyes were blue, piercing and bright, accompanied by long black lashes that fluttered as he spoke. Tate's eyes drifted to her neck, his eyes scanning down her throat, her scrawny throat, bony and weak. All he would have to do is extend a hand, apply a little pressure and **snap!**

Tate was sitting lazily on the school offices couch, routinely twiddling his curls with a long finger, curling a piece of golden hair then letting it ping back into place among his bleach blonde birds nest. Miss Bueler sat a couple meters away behind a dark oak desk, she tapped away with her pen and chewed her cherry red lips, she too, seemed nervous.

"Tate? May I ask you a question?" She asked leaning forward,

Tate mirrored her actions, blowing his hair off of his face; he smirked at the already smiling woman.

"Why of course Miss." He said, sarcastic kindness in his tone.

"You're a good student Tate- remarkable grades, brilliant attendance, yet your behaviour , its a little more, shall we say,_ disturbing.."_ she trailed off, leaving Tate hanging onto her words. Was she going to give him the "damaged boy" talk like every other teacher that inhabited this shit hole?

" The constant fights, threats, not to mention blatant school vandalism... Is everything at home ok Tate? How's family life?"

What did she want him to say? "Everything's fine Miss, you know, apart from the fact I'm a mentally unstable seventeen year old. And right this minute, I could probably rip out your throat and feel absolutely no remorse".

"Everything is_ just_ dandy." He quipped fingering his ring.

"May I see your arms?" she said quickly, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a nervous fashion. But Tate remained calm, his helpless persona that was reserved only for the bullies drifting away by the second. The switch had been flicked, and there before Miss Bueler sat an entirely new Tate.

"My arms? But miss, I don't really think I'm allowed to remove any clothes; it might be a bit, what's the word... inappropriate?

"Oh no no no Tate" she scoffed, waving a hand in the air whilst a red tint appeared on her face

"Just lift your sleeve... If you don't mind..."

Tate had no shame, he didn't know her, what harm could it do, her seeing his battle wounds? Maybe it would even scare her a little?

Slowly he peeled back his sweater sleeve, his ghostly pale arms littered with bruising and angry red cuts, some healed and some that looked pretty fresh. Many of them were long red slithers, perfectly lined up, then there was the patch further up his arm, they were larger, more like gashes, and placed randomly, some crossing scars from previous cuts. His arm was his master piece, his canvas. his paintbrush was his razor and he painted many a pretty picture, blood red and _beautiful_. Even the faded scars he considered beautiful, silver slithers of arm numbing perfectness, and oddly, they were his pride and joy.

The woman's face was White, as he smiled broadly and picked at his converse.

"I'm fucked right?" he chuckled, flashing some teeth. Miss Bueler just swallowed slowly, before rifling through her stack of pamphlets.

"Of course not Tate, you just need some help, professional help."

She was definitely startled, who wouldn't be, she was only the school councillor, probably wasn't used to dealing with self mutilating psychos.

"Oh, you mean a shrink?"

"Maybe, maybe that would do you some good?" she smiled.

"Maybe it would miss". He returned her sickenly sweet smile as she extended a small arm, handing him a pamphlet entitled "you can only help yourself". He was sure he had a whole draw of these at home by now.

"I'll be off now miss, homework calls"

With one swift movement, Tate was already at the door, flashing a charming smile he flitted out into the crowded hallway.

"I'll put you in contact with someone ASAP!" she hollered after him.

Truth was, Tate already saw a therapist, but having another to torment wouldn't go a miss.

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><p>I've always got the impression from the show, that Tate almost has multiple personalites, and i hope i 'm kind of getting that across ..<p>

Sorry its short..


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